Seeker's End
by TanithAeyrs
Summary: A glimpse into the dichotomy of a Seeker's life, good and evil, master and slave. Mostly original characters. Contains a brief glimpse of Cassandra prior to her interrogation of Varric. Rated M for dark subject matter, not for intimate content.


**Seeker's End**

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

_In their blood the Maker's will is written. _

_-Benedictions 4:11i_

The little village sat on a hammock, huddled against the trackless marshes of central Orlais; the boggy ground providing dubious shelter from the darkling forest of the Tirashan looming on the horizon. It was one of many remote villages in western Orlais, its name remembered only by locals, its presence remembered only by tax collectors and the occasional wandering tinker.

The trio of men in muddy leathers and travel-stained cloaks drew curious stares from the villagers as they strode toward the Chantry. An astute observer might have noticed that they carried themselves with the easy grace and awareness of hunters. A soldier might have seen the rhythm of military training in their precise strides. A nearby mage might even have felt the faint hum of lyrium coming from the group. But the village boasted none of these; at least not on an overcast afternoon in Harvestmere with crops yet to be gathered and the last of the wild bounty of the marshes to be stored before the coming winter.

Ciel de Travere paused in the doorway of the tiny Chantry, the dim interior lit by the flickering light of tallow lamps. It was a far cry from the enchanted globes of Val Royeaux, or even the fine beeswax candles of the large Chantries in eastern Orlais. His nostrils flared, a hound on scent, this was where apostates flourished and Chant's holy words must often be enforced with steel. Audric and Varney exchanged a glance before following their commander into the chapel.

"Andraste's blessing upon you. May I help you?" An ageing Sister appeared from behind the altar, bestowing a kind smile upon the hunters.

"Andraste's blessing on you as well. We do indeed need your help." Ciel tugged a glove off revealing a ring emblazoned with the Seeker's Eye.

Sister Beatrice blanched. "This is a good village, Ser. They're none here who deny the Maker."

"Perhaps we should have a little chat, sister."

The sun was sinking below the horizon when the three Seekers left the trembling Sister to beg her forgiveness from the Maker. Welcoming light shone out of the tavern and spilled over an anvil and forge that betrayed the building's dual purpose.

"Audric, I do think travelers would indulge in a tankard of mead after a journey, don't you?" Ciel was not about to rely solely on information from a Sister blinded by compassion.

"Of certainty. I might even have a bit of good fortune to share." The weathered Seeker fell comfortably into a role played many times.

The tavern was full, brimming with curiosity about the strangers in their village. Ciel nursed his mead in calculating observation. Audric bought rounds with his recent "inheritance" and Varney regaled the locals with outrageous anecdotes carefully crafted to gauge the temper of the locals.

Many rounds later moonlight silvered their farewells as the villagers retired to their homes and the Seekers retreated to the Chantry for the night.

"They'll not tell us willingly." Varney spoke in the privacy of the chapel.

"No, it will have to be an accident." Ciel agreed.

Audric nodded. "It's harvest time, perhaps a wagon?"

"Make it so."

Audric was the first to hear the distant squeals of a panicked horse and the terrified cries of a child. "It's happened."

"Andraste would wish us to render aid." Grim lines folded around Ciel's mouth; there was no honor in causing harm in the Maker's name. Yet, he reminded himself, a single demon enthralled maleficar could burn the entire village to ashes. A few injuries were a small price to pay.

It was a grim scene. A sturdy pony struggled to stand, impaled on a broken wagon shaft, bloody foam spraying from his nostrils with each labored breath. The cart lay on its side, sheaves of barley strewn down the dusty track behind it. Some distance away a shattered wheel bore mute testament to the cause of the destruction. Moments passed before Ciel noted the small body trapped under the wreckage.

"Varney, Audric, help me lift the cart!" The lines on Ciel's face etched deeper as they freed the slender body of a boy of perhaps ten summers. The youth had mercifully fainted, but even to untrained eyes it was clear the child would never walk again.

"Roy, no not my Roy!" A sobbing woman broke through the gathering crowd and drew the child into her arms.

Ciel reached down to touch her on a shaking arm. "I have some skill with bone-setting. I will help him if you will allow it."

The balding blacksmith stepped between the grieving mother and the Seeker. "We take care of our own stranger. You've brought bad luck to us. It would be best if you moved on."

"If that is what you wish." Ciel's voice was soft with compassion, no hint of the triumph he felt betrayed in word or action. Yanik and his fellow maleficar must be close for the villagers to turn down aid.

A swift dagger to end the pony's suffering and the Seekers departed, boots leaving a clear trail in the damp soil of the track heading north, away from grieving village.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Scudding clouds created ghostly shadows by moonlight in the hour past midnight. A handful of villagers gathered to bear the crippled child through faded, half-seen paths into the marsh. Far into the swamp, and with many twists and turns made to obscure their trail, the villagers carried their burden. Finally, they approached a small hammock where the faint gleam of firelight could be seen from between the trees.

"You were not followed?" A whip thin man in dirty robes stepped out the greet them.

"We were careful. Pelis told you what happened?" The smith's words were a muffled rumble in the night.

Yanik nodded. "Bring the boy. We are ready."

Ciel crouched, silent in the shadows, warmed by the coursing lyrium in his veins even as icy water soaked into his boots. He watched as the child was laid on a bedroll near the fire, felt the maleficar, Yanik, draw power to mend the boy's twisted limbs. Time passed as the mage drained more and more power into the child's shattered bones until he faltered, exhausted. One of the others took his place, but she collapsed after only a few short minutes. A brief argument ensued among the mages as Yanik moved back to resume the healing. Ciel saw the flash of a dagger as another robed figure drew the razor edge across a palm, spilling blood to fuel the spell.

"_NOW_!" At Ciel's emphatic hand signal the Seekers flowed into synchronous motion, their light leathers allowing speed and stealth impossible in the heavy armor favored by most of their Templar brethren.

Simultaneous Holy Smites left all but Yanik incapacitated. The former circle mage gathered his wits enough to attempt a dash for freedom – directly into Varney who had circled behind the small encampment at Ciel's signal. In only minutes the bedraggled group of apostates was bound; enchanted manacles draining mana and severing contact with the fade.

Yanik struggled in his bonds, righteous fury fueling his defiance. "You bastard! We were healing the child!"

"I name you maleficar. You deny Holy Andraste and consort with demons." Ciel's blue eyes were icy as he spoke the words condemning the mage.

"You're the only demon I see. We gave these people healing and aid with the gifts the Maker gave us. You lock us in a Tower; muzzle us with the threat of Tranquility! Magic is a blessing not a curse, and you, in your blindness, cannot see!"

"I see the blood spilled to fuel your spells, blood to feed a demon. Have you used all the lyrium you stole so quickly? You are condemned by your own actions." Ciel turned away from the sputtering mage to address the villagers. "It is fortunate we were here, these maleficar invited a demon into your midst."

"Fortunate?!" The thin woman Ciel vaguely remembered as Roy's mother shrieked. "I lost one child to the Tower, three to plague and another to a festered wound. Now you condemn my youngest, my last. I beg you, please, if you have any heart at all, allow them to finish his healing."

"Woman, you should be glad I stopped them when I did. Would you prefer your son as a demon thrall? Even now it may be too late."

The woman spat, leaving a damp stain to trickle down Ciel's cheek. He turned from the villagers nodding to Varney and Audric to prod the apostates into line. The child could be dealt with later.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ciel paced the small room, eager to be gone again, back in action, away from the politics and idleness of Val Royeaux. His latest mission had been a success, the stolen lyrium returned, the maleficar captured and a haven for apostates restored to Chantry control. Even the child, Roy, had been taken in to be trained as a Chantry scribe. It was a suitable profession for a cripple and one that placed him securely under Templar supervision.

A small bottle turned in Ciel's hands, its contents running this way and that in restless fingers. It had been less than two days since his last dose; too soon he knew. But the blue liquid sang its siren song, promising to relieve the nagging itch, to let him bask in the otherworldly power coursing through his mortal veins. The cork popped free with little effort as he succumbed to the lyrium's call.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The withered body ceased tossing on the bed and the last blue drop drained between parched lips. A robed figure lifted the empty bottle and turned, his lyrium brand reflecting the flickering candlelight.

"That will be all, Yanik." A grizzled Templar dismissed the Tranquil servant before turning back to a dark-haired woman with the Seeker's Eye emblazoned upon her cuirass.

"There is no hope?" The Seeker frowned wrinkling her nose against the fetid sickroom air.

"He is as you see him. I doubt he'll last the week. You'll get no answers here."

"Then I must find them elsewhere." The dark-haired Seeker closed the door on the grim evidence of a Templar's fate.

Behind the door Ciel de Travere decayed in lyrium dreams, a soldier of the Maker impaled on his own sword.

i Excerpt from the Chant of Light, Dragon Age "The Calling" by David Gaider


End file.
